Running could only get you so far. Especially with those two mean bullies always on the lookout for any opportunity to demean and hurt, especially at Hogwarts, full of moving staircases and locked doors and unnamed, shifting corridors. Especially when Marceline had the Map and would never agree to lend it (Even after Dad had explicitly told her the heirlooms were to be shared, the bitch). Which led to this disaster of a situation, at the end of another deserted corridor. What was the point of dead ends? Why was this blasted castle so hard to navigate? Why did everything always have to end up like this?
"Give it up, Potty!" One tormentor hailed. "Don't worry, we'll make it quick for ya."
Their sneers were just as horrendous as ever, full of contempt and envy and blood thirst.
The gentle shuffle of shoes and robes on the cold stone against the emptiness of the corridor; fists gripping tight around ash and Siren hair core, knuckles whitened by vindictive rage and the rush of hopeless adrenaline.
"If you think I won't put up a fight, you're dumber than you look."
Still, the slight quiver in the words wouldn't stop, nor the tightened jaw, or the shaking, or the eyes from looking frantically around, desperate for an escape.
Flight was no longer an option. The only way out was through the two fuckers.
Spells, spells, a hundred sudden spells were flying around like so many Hogwarts' ghosts; half-formed wand movements and barely remembered incantations fluttering too fast to sort through. Panic rushing forward, surging up, submerging everything like a tsunami ravaging clear minds and drowning what little battle instinct there was.
Until Dad's voice turned up, just like a hundred thousand times before, as if Harry Potter was really standing there, under his famous cloak, the steadying weight of his hands upon tense and fretful shoulders. Come on kiddo. Deep breaths. If you got your wand you have hundreds of means to make it, and if you don't—
If you ever find yourself wandless, remember who you are. Mom's voice, icy as ever, like an impenetrable cocoon only Dad could ever hope to breach. Remember your name, and punch your way out if that's what it takes.
And somehow Mom's words are enough to flush fear and terseness and panic away, somehow her quiet aloofness—the very same lesser minds mistake for uncouth pride and dismissive indifference—infuses its usual magic even all this way, even as a silly little daydream. Mom's magic nonetheless. Powerful stuff.
Remember kiddo. Wizards are slow; Potters are fast.
The perfect spell comes to mind. Bold like Dad would like, and vicious enough to make Mom proud. Not a second passes before twin purple jets burst from the wand and neither of the two bumbling idiots thinks to react, to raise a shield or anything that might have saved them the coming pain. They fall to the ground instead, groan like mindless brutes.
"See you after Christmas, fuckers." A quick, easy smile; a rare occurrence on such a pretty face. Hair turns bright yellow, breathing slows down, and pressed footsteps echo down the halls. The train home awaits.